


blue

by caryophyllaceae (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Christmas, Crying, Death, M/M, More sad, Mourning, breakdown - Freeform, but not like happy christmas lmao sorry, but what's new honestly, dave is a sea captain, homophobia obviously i mean it's the nineteenth century, i even made christmas sad ffs why am i like this, john has to pretend to be a girl bc, set in the nineteenth century, this is probably a movie, ummmmmm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/caryophyllaceae
Summary: —is the color of the ocean he sails on, the color of the bluejay that sings day and night in your garden, the color of your eyes that he loves so.





	blue

**Author's Note:**

> [8tracks for this series.](http://8tracks.com/xphantomhive/color-it-in)

“I’ve just got a bad feeling about this, Dave,” you say to your husband—attempting and failing to hide the waver in your voice—as you adjust the collar of his coat with shaking hands. You’ve been trying to convince him to the best of your ability that this time, the negative stirring in your stomach is more than just nerves that anyone would have about their love sailing the sea; this time, you’re sure that this is an omen, that if Dave sails the ship he captains for what you’ve counted as the twentieth time, you will not see him again. He touches the side of you face with a gentle hand, brushes a few stray curls from your eyes, kisses the bridge of your nose. “You’ve always told me to trust my gut. That’s what I’m doing.”

“John, how many times have I sailed the ocean for months and come back?” He asks, brushing the tear from your eye that you’d been trying to hold back. You don’t grant him a response, but he continues speaking, anyway. “Many. I know you know that. And I always promise to come back, don’t I? My promise stands this time, as well. I promise to come back. It’s only three months. I’ve taken much longer on journeys, haven’t I?”

Despite your best efforts not to, you sigh. You’ve been in love with Dave Strider since you were a mere child—a boy with scraped knees and missing teeth, and though your love had never been accepted, you’d made it work. Kissing behind closed doors, having your gender and legal name changed in secrecy. To the townspeople, you are Joanmarie Egbert—or rather, Joanmarie Strider, but you digress. In reality, you are male, and your name is John; but legally, you are female, and your name is Joanmarie. It was the only way that you were permitted to love Dave in the open rather than in hiding for your entire life. And though there are many things he lies about and many people he lies to, you are not one of them. If he promises something, he means it. You’ve just got a bad feeling, that’s all. “Yes, well,” you finally respond, realizing that you’d been silent for just a touch too long. “I didn’t feel quite as unnerved before as I do now.”

Unlike you, Dave does not try to contain his exasperation. He sighs at you openly. “You always feel the same about me leaving. Don’t you know you can’t fool me?” He replies, and your face flushes. “Three months. I’ll be back in three months, and then we’ll be able to ask my sister for a child that we can raise together. I promise to make this my last voyage.”

You tug at the neck of your lace nightgown. It feels much too tight. You’re sure that you’re just dreaming it up, losing your mind to nerves. You knew that you’d never be able to convince Dave to stay, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t make an attempt. “As long as it’s your last,” you give back, touching your palm to your forehead. “I’ll miss you.”

He returns to you a soft chuckle, crossing the room to kiss the corner of your eye, where a tear has formed. “If you think for a moment I won’t miss you, then you’ve gone batty.”

 

* * *

 

On the morning of the day Dave sets sail, you wake up at five p.m. and find that you are too nervous to continue sleeping, so instead, you go through your morning routine. Your hands shake so much that you find trouble in doing even the simplest tasks—tying your hair in a bun, buttoning the front of your dress. Dave finds you when he rises an hour later, slumped in your chair, looking absolutely miserable with an unbuttoned dress and frizzy hair. You hear him sigh and he crosses the room to help, buttoning your dress for you and fixing your hair. He’s always been good at that. “You’ll worry yourself to death, I swear,” he mumbles to himself as he walks away, and you laugh softly, standing.

While Dave is getting ready, there is a knock at your door. You clear your throat and straighten your dress before you answer it, overjoyed to find that it is Dave’s sister, Rose Lalonde. The only person who knows of your true gender, aside from your own sister and Dave himself, of course. You smile and usher her inside. “I hear from Dave that you’re positively losing it,” she says, smiling sharply. You’ve always loved her wit. In fact, you even dated her—high school, before you found Dave reciprocated your feelings. “Do you need shock therapy?”

You make a noise akin to a scoff, starting with your most common nervous habit—readjusting everything in your living area. “I sincerely hope that was a joke,” you reply. It’s barely been a minute and you’ve already moved your flower vase to five different locations, and you know that Rose hasn’t even batted an eye at your constant rearranging. She’s used to it, you suppose. After all, it’s the same thing you do every single time that Dave is leaving for an expedition. You’ve never been very good at conjuring your anxiety in a positive manner. “I know you’re against shock therapy.”

“You look dashing today,” she says instead of giving you a proper response.

“Don’t patronize me,” you respond immediately. “My husband is leaving to sail the ocean. The wide, open ocean, where there are sharks and pirates and other things that could kill him.”

Rose hums at you, but gives no further reply. You’ve lost count of the times you’ve moved the flower vase by the time Dave is finished readying himself, and when he leaves the bathroom, he walks right to you and takes the vase from your hands, setting it back at the spot where it began at. “Let’s go, before he drives himself mad,” he says, shooting his gaze to Rose, who laughs eloquently, as always, and stands. The three of you leave the house and begin your walk to the dock which is, sadly, only a few steps from your home. When you’ve made it to the dock, you find that Dave’s crew has already readied the ship, which means you’ve got barely a minute to say your goodbyes.

You allow Rose to go first. Her goodbye is never very complex—she smiles softly, tells Dave to be careful, wishes him a good voyage, and tells him that she’ll see him soon. On certain occasions, she hugs him, but not this time. Once she’s finished, she looks back to you and smiles, making a motion at Dave with her hands. He rolls his eyes, but you only manage to catch quick sight of it because you’re too busy launching yourself into his arms. He’s a head and a half taller than you, so when he returns your hug, he lifts you off of the ground. “You better come back to me, you hear?” You warn, but there’s no bite to it. He smiles and kisses you, briefly, swiftly, but when he pulls back you tug him back in and lengthen the kiss. “I love you.”

When he sets you down, your shoes make a soft pitter sound against the solid ground. “I love you, too. And you’ve got nothing to worry about—you know I’ll come back, for you.”

“How endearing,” Rose cuts in, and though it is anything but ladylike, you shove her. She barely budges because you aren’t exactly known for being strong, but you have managed to catch the attention of the crew members on the ship, who are all looking at you like you’re the first woman they’ve ever seen. “Goodbye, David. I do hope to see you again.”

Dave rolls his eyes again. “I’ve told you not to call me that,  _Rosalyn._ Sadly, I haven’t got time for a passive-aggressive battle. I have an open ocean to sail. Goodbye, to the both of you.”

You nod and watch your husband board his ship, but you haven’t even got the will to watch him leave because the tears in your eyes are threatening to spill over like a waterfall, and you have no choice to rush back to your home, dabbing at your eyes with your handkerchief. You hear Rose follow behind, but by the time you’ve made it home, she’s gone.

 

* * *

 

You’ve got the date Dave is meant to return scribbled on the wall in your study, but you’ve got it memorized, nonetheless. For the months he is gone, you go about life as usual. You go to the market to purchase fruit for yourself, to purchase ingredients to make a meal for one, and if you’re feeling it, bird food, to feed the bluejay who perches itself in your garden of lilies. Rose comes to visit you once a week—usually on Fridays, because that’s the only day of the week that the embroidery market she works at is shut. Today is December third, the first day of the third month of Dave’s absence, as well as his birthday. You bake him a cake despite the fact that he hasn’t come home yet. It’s only a Wednesday, but Rose comes to visit you; she brings a dress she made for you as well as a bird cage.

“What’s this for?” You ask her, turning the cage over in your hands. The question is meant to cover the dress, as well, because you aren’t sure why she’d brought you either of those things, as it isn’t a holiday, nor is it your birthday. She seems to understand that you mean the dress as well as the bird cage, because she answers to both.

“The dress because I made it especially for you—it’s Dave’s favorite color, so I thought that you’d appreciate it,” she starts, and you giver her a wide, happy smile. “The cage is for the bluejay in your garden. I thought maybe you could bring it inside, because winter is creeping up quickly and it’ll surely freeze to death outside.”

“Birds go south for the winter, anyway,” you give back, despite the fact that you know Rose knows that because though you are not exactly an idiot, Rose has always been much smarter than you. Not that you mind. “I’m sure you knew that.”

Rose nods. “Of course I did. It just seemed you liked the bird, is all.”

You look down at the cage in your hands again, turn it over once more. You suppose that catching the bird wouldn’t hurt anyone—and if you keep it, it won’t be eaten by larger, stronger prey. You do not say anything else to Rose, but you do step to the kitchen and out the back door. The blue jay is resting in the patch of roses that Dave forced you to plant, though you’ve got no idea why, because he doesn’t particularly like flowers, anyway. You’ve got no hassle in getting the bluejay into the cage; it hops happily into your hands and then into the cage, and once you’ve got it, you hold the cage up high and look directly at the window you know Rose is looking at you from. She smiles down at you, carefully, and you think she may have mouthed, “congratulations, John,” but you aren’t entirely certain.

 

* * *

 

Today is December fifteenth. This day is scribbled hastily on your otherwise perfect white wall in your study—it is the day Dave is meant to return. You don the dress that Rose made especially for you and fix your hair in the mirror, though your hands shake profusely and you barely manage to tack it up into its usual bun. By eight o’clock in the morning, Rose, as well as your father and your sister Jade have gathered themselves in your living room. Jade is feeding your bluejay, and your father and Rose are chatting about God knows what. Your heart is in your throat, but you greet them in kind, smoothing the skirt of your dress down. “Hello, everyone,” you say, and it sounds absolutely pathetic. Jade allows the bluejay to finish the pellet she’d just held out for him and then she stands, crosses the room and wraps you tight in her arms.

“John!” She cheers excitedly. As always, she towers over you. You’ve always hated your height, though, being short is what helps you look so feminine. “How’ve you been?”

“As well as I can be,” you respond, giving a small laugh.

“That means he hasn’t been doing well,” your father cuts in, rising from his spot on the sofa next to Rose. He steps over to you and Jade sidesteps, allowing him to pull you into a tight hug. You dig your fingers into his back and try your best not to cry, to no avail. It’s been quite a while since you’ve seen your father and, dammit, you’re allowed to be emotional about it. “Hello, son.”

“Dad,” you breathe, half-love, half-relief. He rubs your back carefully. You hug him for what feels like an eternity before you finally pull back, and then your group of four heads to the dock. You carry an umbrella with because the forecast is calling for rain today, and once you’ve reached the port where Dave’s ship comes in, it’s begun to drizzle. You hold the umbrella above your head and breathe steadily, shifting your feet. You begin to count the minutes in your head.

 

* * *

 

By eleven p.m., Dave’s ship still hasn’t come in. Everyone has left aside from you, but at eleven-thirty, Jade comes to collect you from the dock. She offers to let you stay at her house, but you assure her that you’ll be fine staying at your own. You change out of the dress into your nightclothes and crawl into bed, though you’re sure you won’t get a wink of sleep. What could possibly be keeping him? Dave has never been late—not even a minute. He’s always been exactly on time, on the exact date. He’d never make you wait for him. After hours of tossing and turning, you climb out of bed at one a.m. and walk to your sitting room. Your bluejay is chirping softly in his cage, and you remove him from it, sitting in your chair by the window that faces the sea and allowing him to perch on your shoulder.

“Where could Dave be, jay?” You ask the bird quietly, though you know he can’t understand what you’re saying to him. It’s the same principle as it is with a dog, you suppose. They can’t understand what you’re saying, but somehow, talking to them makes you feel better. You press your palm flat against the window and sigh, your breath fogging up the glass.

You’re sure he’ll be back. You just know it. Dave promised not to leave you behind, and Dave never breaks his promises.

 

* * *

 

Today is December twenty-fifth. It is Christmas. Snow falls from the sky, heavy flakes, sticking to the ground and making quick-forming piles. Traveling in weather like this is insanity, you know, so you’re quite shocked to hear a knock come at your door at nine o’clock in the morning. You answer, though, because you’re fearful it may be a mother and her child who happened to get stuck in the storm and were in need of a place to stay. However, when you answer, you do not find a helpless mother and child; you find Jade, Rose, your father, and the woman you’ve known since you were a small boy, Roxy Lalonde.

“Merry Christmas, John,” Rose says. You’re in awe for a moment before the situation finally kicks in and you step aside, allowing the group of four into your house. Jade and your father both hug you, but Rose and Roxy only give smiles. Each of them are holding a gift in their hands, and you sincerely hope that they aren’t for you. “We didn’t want you to have to celebrate alone. We know how hard Dave’s absence has been on you.”

Jade nods. “Not to say he won’t be back, of course,” she adds in, and Rose nods in agreement. Your dad has a sad look on his face, the same he had when your grandmother died the year you turned three-years-old. You’re starting to lose your will, but you know that Dave will be back—you just know it. He’s been your friend since you were a boy, with bruised knees and sticky hands covered in melted lollipop, and though he wasn’t always known to be an honest man, he could never—would never—lie to you. Never you. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”

Your father clears his throat. “Yes, well,” he begins. “Why don’t we give John his gifts?”

The single gift each of them hold are handed over to you, and you tell them that you couldn’t possibly accept, that you didn’t get them anything and so you don’t deserve gifts from them. Roxy waves you off. You note that her nails are pink, such a bright pink that it almost makes you feel ill. You didn’t even know such a color existed. “It doesn’t matter,” she assures you, standing from her spot and patting your shoulder, a familiar, comforting touch. When you were children, that was the way she always calmed you down. “Just open the gifts. We want to show you our gratitude for you being such a kind, generous friend.”

Rose, you find, has given you another dress. This one is identical to the red one she had given you—the one that you are wearing now, in fact, nervously twisting and turning the white lace on the neck in your fingers—aside from the fact that this one is blue. You thank her and move to Jade’s gift, which is a box, full to the brim with different flower seeds. She tells you that they’re for the springtime. You thank her, also, and move to your father’s gift. His is a set of china that you used to look at in the window of the china shop when you were a boy, the china you always said you’d buy when you got older. You cry, now, and hug him tightly.

Roxy’s gift is a hairbrush with thick bristles. She tells you that it’ll do much better with your hair than the one you’ve got now, and you thank her, closing the box the brush is held in and setting it on the end table by your sofa. Your bluejay is chirping loudly in his cage, so you take him out and he jumps right to your shoulder, his chirping ceasing entirely. You press a soft kiss to his head, and then, your dad says, “Well, I think I’ll make us a nice dinner. Does that sound good to everyone?”

You all nod, unsurprisingly. Your dad’s cooking is amazing; you suppose that’s why he’s the head chef of the fancy restaurant a town over. Once he starts working in the kitchen, you pull your coat on and head outside, to the deck that overlooks your garden. The flowers are wilted and the ground is covered in snow—you wonder, idly, if the grass beneath is brown. Your bluejay chirps loudly on your shoulder. “Do you like snow, too, jay?” You ask, leaning against the rail across the deck to protect you from falling. No one joins you outside. After a while, though, you hear the door to the deck open, and Rose is standing against it.

“Someone’s at the door for you,” she informs, and there is a look in her eyes that makes you fearful to see who it is. You gather what little courage you’ve got and brush past her, walking right to the front door with your head held high. A man is standing in the doorway, a somber look on his face, an outfit of some sort folded neatly in his hands.

“Yes?” You ask him patiently, smiling.

He clears his throat. “Joanmarie Strider?” He replies.

“That’s me,” you give back, nodding.

He clears his throat again. You’ll have to invite him in for tea once he delivers whatever news it is he has for you. “I regretfully inform you, Mrs.Strider,” he begins, stretching his arms out to you, holding the outfit in his hands close to your stomach. You know that Jade, Rose, and Roxy have gathered behind you, because you can feel hands on your back, ghost-touches. “That your husband, David Strider, has died at sea. This is his uniform—the only thing that could be salvaged from his ship, aside from a cannon. It was completely demolished.”

“No,” you say, slowly. The word sounds foreign on your tongue, doesn’t fit in your mouth right, makes your head hurt. You take the outfit carefully from him, unfold it roughly, throwing everything aside but the jacket. It all reeks of ocean, stained from being in salt water. Stitched into the jacket, right over the heart, in your messy stitching—is _d. strider._

“No!” You scream now, dropping to the ground. The man clears his throat again, gives you his “sincerest apologies” but it doesn’t make you feel better in the slightest. You’re crying, sobbing, heavy tears falling from your eyes in globs. “No—he—he _promised_! Dave never breaks his promises, never, and he— _he promised me he would be back_!”

The man shuts the door himself and you don’t even flinch when it gets caught on your leg, the wood likely leaving you with a nasty splinter that you could care less about at this moment in time, because nothing will hurt more than your heart—it is breaking to pieces, you know, the shards of it cutting at your lungs, suffocating you. “He promised,” you repeat, again and again and again and again, a mantra. “He _promised_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [the dress rose got john.](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/67/c9/f2/67c9f20d94186935e0ef2e2bcfa31a78.jpg)
> 
> just picture it in blue for the christmas one.
> 
> thanks for reading! i came up with this idea while i was doing work for history, not gonna lie here.


End file.
